


A dangerous disadvantage

by The_Lady_of_Purpletown



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft's Ring, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:56:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lady_of_Purpletown/pseuds/The_Lady_of_Purpletown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A post-Reichenbach fic, about Mycroft’s ring and what it has to do with Moriarty’s plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> This story will contain spoilers and own interpretations of “The Reichenbach Fall”. Of course I do not own the characters etc.  
> Inspired by those who were wishing that Ian Hallard would play Sebastian Moran.  
> Comments are most welcome!  
> Thanks to the Sherlock creators of course and a huge thank you to my dear beta readers, whose help was indispensable. I also want to thank Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, though I might be a bit late with that :P – and thanks to you for reading!

The Holmes brothers were standing eye to eye, the distance of almost all of Mycroft’s sitting room between them.

“How did it go?” Mycroft informed, looking as if it was only normal that his younger brother who had died three hours ago was standing in his house.

“As expected.”

“But not entirely,” Mycroft replied.

His brother’s gaze became fiercer for a moment. “We don’t have time to discuss all that has happened, Mycroft, since you obviously know already as much as I do. You know what I need.”

“You need to disappear for a while,” Mycroft confirmed. He walked to a drawer and got out a neatly folded heap of clothes. “These will catch a little less attention than your coat and scarf,” he said while throwing them to Sherlock.

The latter nodded and started changing, while Mycroft stuffed his old clothes in a bag.

Once finished dressing, Sherlock looked up from smoothing the collar of the leather jacket with a thoughtful expression. “Was it worth it? The information Moriarty handed you for giving him the weapons to destroy me?”

“He has been useful to a certain level.”

“Did you ask him about Sebastian?”

Mycroft briefly touched the ring on his right hand. They never talked about this, as an unspoken rule. “Of course not,” he answered coldly.

“You do realize that we will take him down as well.”

“Sherlock, please don’t think I am stupid. He did not take my brain with him when he left,” Mycroft spat out. _Only my heart_ , he added to himself.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Sherlock replied tonelessly.

 

For a moment, Mycroft’s cool blue eyes showed a flicker of pain as he thought back of the first time he met the man from whom he had received this ring. He had been 33 at the time and it seemed more than a lifetime ago. A case of international importance had occurred and just like so many other times a sniper had to stop the criminal from getting away.

 

_“Sir, he has escaped.”_

_Mycroft sighed. “Send the sniper to me.”_

_“It wasn’t his fault, sir. They blocked his view with a laundry truck.”_

_“Send him anyway.”_

_Sebastian Moran had been a new recruit, only thirty years old. Whether it was his mistake or not, he still needed his first speech about what it meant to miss a master criminal. Most newcomers were at least impressed when the icy young man in charge, who seemed to radiate power, made them very clear how he felt about their failures. It was remarkable how cool Moran had been. He had even left an impression on Mycroft, and when the latter flew home that night, he thought the sniper had redefined the term “tough”._

_In the following months, they happened to meet again. Of course Mycroft was not personally acquainted with most of the snipers who worked for the government. Usually he barely noticed them, except for when he was giving them orders, but there was something about Sebastian Moran that intrigued him. Something he had not seen in anyone before. The sniper was quite intelligent – of course he was not a Holmes, but absolutely more than average. He realized the importance of his work and did not seem to enjoy it too much either – which was only a virtue, being a mercenary._

 

It would have been alright if they had just become good friends. Even if they had been a tiny bit in love with each other and had done nothing about it. But Sebastian was clever, Mycroft reflected afterwards. He had manipulated Mycroft in order to reach his goal. _Mycroft_ , a master of manipulation himself – and yet he simply had been fooled.

In fact, he was not entirely sure it had been like that. Maybe Sebastian _had_ loved him and had only been convinced to betray him later - but it was even more painful to believe in that scenario. It meant that his love had never been worth more than what Sebastian’s new employers had been willing to pay him, while Mycroft had thought it so valuable that he had even partly put rationality aside. Step by step, Sebastian had conquered both Mycroft’s mind and body until he had asked the powerful man to marry him. At that time, one could consider Sebastian the best spy an enemy could have. His information came right from the top of British Intelligence. Theoretically, at least.  But then there was Mycroft, who had not gone _completely_ out of his mind and kept his work and his private life as separate as possible. Sebastian knew almost nothing. They had made it clear to each other that because of both of their professions’ nature, they always had to keep boundaries in those matters. And that was where Mycroft’s – well, _hope_ – that Sebastian had never really loved him failed. He could have left him as soon as he knew that even their marriage would not change anything in his access to essential information. But he had not. He had been his husband for more than a year. Mycroft had never felt the need to visit the Diogenes Club as long as his relationship with Sebastian had lasted. His home had felt like _home_ and as a result had been the perfect place to organize his thoughts.

 

After the betrayal had become clear, he had felt more emotion than he had ever done in his life. The anger, the emptiness in his once so icy heart… the sorrow, even so that he had allowed to unchain the tears for two times – although crying had obviously never restored anything. The loneliness.

He turned back to his usual visits to the Diogenes Club not long afterwards.

As the members of the Club did not spend their time on endless chattering about nothing, they were more observant than most people. They noticed the only change in Mycroft’s appearance: the wedding ring on his right hand. But then, thanks to the traditional rules, no-one could ever ask him about it.

By that time, Mycroft already had enough power to make sure that officially his marriage had never existed. But he always kept wearing the ring. It would remind him at any time that love was a dangerous disadvantage. He should never again make the mistake of caring too much, because it could destroy him and almost had.

The exception to that rule was standing in front of him.

 

Mycroft and Sherlock had of course already avoided as much contact as they could for years, but especially in the time when Mycroft had been happily married, he had felt no desire to be in touch with his trouble seeking brother. He should have known how Sherlock was lonelier than ever – probably he did, deep in his heart. He hated himself for it afterwards and had promised himself to make up by always watching his brother, as there had proven to be a reason for constantly worrying about him.

 

As for himself, he had always been more in control. He valued a working brain too much to even think of using drugs. Comfort food on the other hand had never caused any damage. It did not help that the Diogenes Club was always provisioned by an excellent baker.

He had always struggled with his weight, unlike his little brother. When earlier Sebastian had noticed he worried about it, he had laughed and told him he was perfect while he hugged him. “Otherwise you’d be microscopic, _Mycro_ ft.” Back then, he had been deaf to the sarcasm in his words and had even considered it sweet – as far as Mycroft Holmes ever thought that kind of words. He still didn’t understand how he had come to do something as irrational as falling in love.

It was only when Moriarty texted him about the flight earlier that year – “dear me, mister Holmes, dear me” – that Mycroft realized to the fullest that hunting the consulting criminal also meant stopping Sebastian Moran. And although he had abjured caring and obviously did not feel anything like love for him anymore, he let his head sank in his hands. The thousands of lives that were at risk were only part of his concern – he could take care of that. It was the power of an aching heart that was worrying him.

 

The small smile Sebastian had shot him the third time they met, only lasting for a second, after he had thanked him solemnly for solving a situation with a particularly difficult aim. The happy feeling when he was walking back home after staying at Sebastian’s for a drink for two hours longer than he had planned. How peaceful the tough mercenary looked when he was sleeping next to him. Sebastian’s arm slipping around his waist and his hand resting on his hip while they sat at the fireplace. It had become their default position during the winter when Sebastian had moved in with him.

If he had not known how they eventually came to an end, it would have been blissful memories.

 

Realizing his silence had been too long, Mycroft returned to the present and to the brother that needed his help.

“Sherlock…”

“For god’s sake, Mycroft, it’s hardly the time to get sentimental.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I am not going to ask you to be careful, since what you are going to do is all but that. I am not a fool, Sherlock.” He looked his brother in the eyes. “Just promise me that one day, when you’re able to come back, you _will_ explain everything to John.”

Sherlock frowned. “Of course I will, but why would you bother?”

Mycroft didn’t move. “Just promise me.”

“Ah, of course.” He gave his elder brother a sneering look, but somewhere behind it there was a glimpse of pity. “I promise.” He spit out the last word, then turned to the door.

“Sherlock. I already asked John to tell you this, but I reckon he has not had the chance. I am sorry, Sherlock.”

The younger brother turned his head to the elder, his face once again an emotionless mask.

“Although it is not at all out of place, Mycroft, your feeling of guilt will not help me for one second. Just make sure that you send what I asked for.” And with those emphasized words, Sherlock went out.


	2. Sherlock

Sherlock Holmes had never been the man to sit still, nor was he one to go to the beach or to dwell on memories and musings for long. Yet, he found himself doing all three of those things.

The need of secrecy around him, being among the living, had lead him to Italy. Mycroft had provided him with a new identity, but he made sure to use it only if he had no other choice. Thus he had ended up on a private beach of an Italian hotel. The heat of July had warmed the land enough to spend the night outdoors, though there would be no-one around until the hotel people opened their part of the beach again for public at eight in the morning.

Sherlock was sitting against a tree, his arms around his knees, watching the waves leaving and coming back. He had never understood this obsession that people tended to have about the sea. It was just an awful lot of salt water separating continents. Anyway, he had to admit that the sound of water stroking the beach was soothing him. Of course he did not have the luxury of being totally relaxed now, but it was after midnight, as far as he knew nobody was informed that he was in Italy and he needed a moment to recollect his thoughts. More than ever, being a fugitive who was not even supposed to be alive was wearing out his brain. Every moment he had to plan forward, to decide where he would go next, to work out the plan in order to clear his name (although the greatest part of that had already been taken care of – probably he could even explain Moriarty’s part in the Carl Powers case after all those years), to find out where the next string of Moriarty’s web would lead. The thinking could never stop, because it would not only end his life, but also that of his friends.

And yet, it was becoming boring. Maybe not the brainwork it implied, but the nagging, uncomfortable feeling of being responsible for the few people he loved. The fear. It had never been included in his common range of feelings; nor would he ever get used to it.

 

He stretched out his long legs and looked up. The stars were bright. He tried not to think of how they had reflected in John’s night blue eyes, that one night when they were after the Golem. “Beautiful,” he had said, and John had been surprised because earlier Sherlock had not been interested in the solar system. “Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it” had summed it up pretty much. It was exactly the same: people might not interest him, but he certainly did appreciate John and it was a shame that for their own safety, it was impossible to have that one person by his side now. Well, in a way he was always interested of course - in what people did, especially their criminal activities - but it was in the way a scientist studied viruses but of course never developed a bond with his subjects. He did not value them because of their personality, because that was never as fascinating. Except for John.

He sighed as he realized that he loved the man as much as he was capable of doing – or better, as much as he was capable of _allowing_ himself to do. It was dangerous to admit it to himself, but he was certain about their friendship. The concept of relationships with other people had always been tiresome for Sherlock. They always expected one would become the person ideal to their standards instead of accepting the other as such. He had never even been curious to experience those more tedious habits of the human race that often went along with relationships. But with John, everything had been different. Even other people surrounding them seemed to have become a bit more tolerable when the army doctor became his friend.

All he hoped was that he could restore it when he got back – whenever that would be.

 

Of course they were nothing more than friends – John kept tiring out himself telling other people – but that did not mean that they could not love each other. And he knew John reciprocated his feelings, although they would probably never literally tell each other.

Still, Mycroft had shown that even when you trusted them completely, people you cared for could let you down. But then, John was even supporting Sherlock while he thought the detective was dead. Mycroft kept an eye on the doctor and had reported to Sherlock about how his flat mate stated firmly that his friend was real, could not _possibly_ have been a fake. It seemed to convince even Mycroft that John really was a reliable friend. And he missed him.

They were just so comfortable together, so used to each other’s company. In the end it had even felt strange when John was out alone for some hours, leaving Sherlock without anyone to easily talk and bicker with. It had been – well, _good_ to attract someone’s attention while performing a nasty experiment with a human liver, yet not to be limited in doing so.

Just his presence when he was slowly typing his blog.

John and Sherlock simply needed each other. The detective huffed at himself and rolled his eyes. _Sentiment._

It was time he got some sleep. If he had slept for more than fifty hours since his staged death, almost a month ago, he would be surprised. He needed a cigarette, but he would not buy any. He could not simply throw away John’s efforts to make him quit.

Instead, he would become absorbed in the adrenalin of the case, so there would be no time for these philosophical musings. After all, work was the best antidote to sorrow. It was time to blow away some cobwebs. And at least he knew he would go back, the sooner the better. Compared to John, he had nothing to complain of.

 

It was easy to think it was all Mycroft’s fault, really. But despite his antipathy for his brother, he knew the situation was hurting him as well. He had been a fool, with his power and intellect, to marry Sebastian, but the past could not be made undone and it was no use keeping him responsible for everything that had happened. In the end, Sherlock himself was the one whom Moriarty could tempt into his great game.

 

He shut his eyes and forced himself to sleep.


	3. John

“Amazing how you always manage to get caught.”

John looked up from the bed in his cell with an annoyed expression. “Oh, you”, he said dismissively.

“You’re free to go, I took care of it,” Mycroft said.

“It was only one night in jail. I don’t need help. Especially not _yours_.” John stared right in the eyes of the elder Holmes brother – the only, he still needed to remind himself after a year.

“It’s extraordinary how you have inherited my brother’s resentment after his death,” Mycroft remarked.

If glares or thoughts could have killed, John would have committed a triple murder on a single person right there.

“Come on, I don’t have all day. You’d better go home. There is a matter in which I need your help that I will present to you later this evening. _If_ you are not too busy painting the whole city yellow.”

John stood up from his bed and walked past Mycroft, back into freedom. “Everyone can know that I will never lose my faith in him. I don’t care about getting caught.”

“But it won’t bring him back. It doesn’t _help_ when you are shouting at the whole of London that you believe in my late brother. Its only result is even more graffiti in a city that already had few places without vandalism.”

“Well, you didn’t help either, did you?” John looked up at him while he was taking his possessions.

Mycroft sighed while he watched how the other man signed the papers for his release and then walked out, ignoring him.

“John.”

With all the reluctance in the world, John stopped at hearing his tone.

“It has been more than a year. I understand this is more difficult for you than it is for me, but don’t think that I did not care in the least for Sherlock.”

John swallowed. “If you hadn’t told Moriarty so much about his life, he would probably still  be alive. I can’t help but think that except for Moriarty, you are the most to blame. I will never forgive you. You didn’t just take _his_ life.” Tears welled up in his eyes and he quickly walked away in the direction of Baker Street. Mycroft watched him until he was out of sight, then switched his umbrella to his other hand and took his phone out of his pocket.

 

_He is on his way. – MH_

 

~~~

 

Once John had calmed himself down and his emotions were under control again, he let his mind wander over the past year. The first months he had found it difficult to go back to the flat, but Mycroft had convinced him to return. He had been quite right that John wouldn’t find a place to live as perfect as 221B, but on the other hand it had been painful to move back into their rooms, where the boxes with chemical equipment were waiting. Mrs. Hudson had told him she had packed all of Sherlock’s things in them, and yet, as much as John looked for it, he never found the skull to keep him company.

The biggest reason for which he had agreed to go back, was the fact Mycroft would pay the rent – not just Sherlock’s part, but all of it. Normally John Watson would _never_ have accepted such “charity”, but he thought Mycroft deserved it to pay for what he had done – so why not let him do so literally?

He hadn’t had the heart to throw away anything of Sherlock’s mess. The cardboard boxes stood there, making it look as if he was going to move soon, causing him to feel like he never really was at home in Baker Street. But obviously that was not due to the cheerless view of the boxes, but to the absence of his flat mate…

 

John’s life had not been worth much since that horrifying day when Sherlock had called him from the rooftop of St. Bartholomew’s. The situation resembled the meaningless existence after he had been despatched from Afghanistan, before he had met the only consulting detective in the world, so much. Listlessly limping around in London, thinking back to the days of adrenalin rush. He was bored.

But he did not just miss his life with Sherlock; of course he missed the man himself just as much. Although the Scotland Yarders would never believe it, he had gotten used to the presence of the extraordinary man soon after he had moved into 221B.

A couple of times after Sherlock’s fall, John had tried to get a job, but it were only halfhearted attempts, and even the one time he had managed to get employed, he had heard Sherlock’s “oh, how _dull_ ” in his head and rejected it. Most of his time, he was just sitting in his chair, staring at the emptiness opposite him, lost in memories of the thrilling cases in which Sherlock had dragged him along. In the night, he would get his bag with yellow paint cans and go out, trying to convince the world that both Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty were real, and that it was Rich Brook who was the fake. Still, that was not the popular belief. There had even appeared other graffiti, saying that Moriarty was fake and Sherlock Holmes was a liar. John had almost exploded with anger when he saw it. How could people support that criminal, while the consulting detective had saved them from so many crimes? How could anyone ever believe that all those solved mysteries had been nothing more than a lie?

It also made him wonder what had become of Moriarty. In the first days after Sherlock’s jump, he hadn’t been interested in anything; there had only been the emptiness. But later, he wondered how it had all ended.

It had been so unlike Sherlock to commit suicide. There would always have been an unsolved case to live for. It was another issue that part of John had always refused to believe. Just like the fact that Sherlock would have lied to him, his best friend. He might have been a bit grumpy towards him sometimes – who wouldn’t, after being kept awake by a violin for half the night – but he had always been loyal. The Sherlock Holmes he knew so well would never do those things, and still... He had seen it with his own eyes and after months he couldn’t but halfheartedly agree with his therapist that he could not deny that it was the truth. The man was dead.

Sherlock’s voice had echoed in his head, once again. _Whenever you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

 

The last few days, the newspapers were completely filled with the murder on Ronald Adair. It had been a perfect case for Sherlock, had he been alive. The police had absolutely no idea what to make of it, while John knew Sherlock would have solved it in less than a day. It renewed John’s feeling of loss and he had picked up his graffiti cans again, after some weeks without nocturnal painting escapades.

 

With a sigh, John walked into Baker Street and fumbled for his keys. As he was mounting the stairs, something felt weird. Or in fact, something felt a bit more normal than it had mostly done in the past year, but once a normal feeling was unusual, people would place it under the name of “strange” or “weird”. It was the kind of weird that Sherlock was as well: not common, but wonderfully and beautifully so.

 

John stopped in the doorway of their flat. The lights were turned on and with a glance he saw that the skull was back on its old spot above the fireplace. A tall man was sitting in the dark armchair on the right and turned his head to him.

“Hello John,” a familiar deep voice vibrated.

John’s legs gave way under him, but he put his hand on the doorpost to prevent himself from fainting. He just stood there, open-mouthed.

Sherlock looked thin, but healthy – absolutely nothing like a man who had been dead for a year, a month and thirteen days. His hair was a bit wet; he had had a shower in the time he had been waiting for John to come home, after Mycroft had let him know that it would take at least an hour before he would get him out of jail. It had been long since he had had a decent shower and he was glad he could get rid of the smell before seeing his best friend after all this time. He was wearing his favourite purple shirt and black trousers and vest, so it looked as if he had not been away for more than a day. Even the familiar coat hung in its place.

There were a lot of questions John wanted to ask all at once, but of course that didn’t work. He found back the power in his legs – both of them – and walked to Sherlock, who had just been sitting quietly looking at him.

“It- it _was_ you, lying dead on the pavement that day. How...?” John’s voice was hoarse. He prodded a finger in Sherlock’s bony shoulder to make sure he wasn’t a ghost. If this had been any other situation, it would have looked comically with Sherlock’s eyebrow quirking in reaction.

The air grew almost electric with the tension between the two men.

John plumped down into his own chair. “You’ve got a hell of a lot to explain, Sherlock.” His voice was stronger than he felt.

“I know. We still have some things to do tonight, John – the last of Moriarty’s men are still out there, but we know their exact locations thanks to Mycroft’s men, otherwise I shouldn’t be here of course. The surveillance around the flat has been upped to be sure. But I suspect you want me to start at the beginning – or rather my ending.”

John made a head movement that implied Sherlock was right, but could have made a better choice of words.

And so Sherlock started to tell him everything. Moriarty’s plan to make him fall and the moment on which he had seen through it, the surprise when Moriarty chose to shoot himself, forcing Sherlock to use his own back-up plan. How Molly had helped him to fake his death quite convincingly, how Mycroft had helped in his flight abroad. The hunt for Moriarty’s criminal network and how he had come back sometimes to check on John, mostly at the graveyard. How he had known where to start when he discovered which of the wireless networks around 221B was connected with the hidden camera in their sitting room.

John tried to interrupt a couple of times, in protest when he learned that both Molly and Mycroft had been trusted where he hadn’t been, but Sherlock held up his hand, knowing that it was a lot easier to narrate the whole story at a stretch. He told everything, making sure he did not overlook the details, except for the part of Mycroft’s history in it. John was angry enough with his brother already, and Mycroft probably wouldn’t appreciate it if he told anyone, even someone as trustworthy as _his_ doctor.

 

When he finally stopped talking, John was breathing hard. Observing the flaming look in his eyes, Sherlock wondered for a moment if he had heard anything of his explanation, though probably he had – John would always listen.

Suddenly the doctor seemed to snap out of his shock.

“You – were alive – and you didn’t let me know – _anything_ – for an entire – fucking – _year_.” His voice was trembling with suppressed anger.

“I had to, John. I just told you that otherwise he would have got you killed. _And_ Lestrade and mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said in an impatient tone. That was a mistake.

John jumped from his chair and took a step closer to Sherlock. “What were you thinking? Caring is boring, so let’s just keep John in the dark?” He threw his arms in the air in exasperation and started pacing the room. Sherlock looked at his knees, letting the storm of rage come over him. He knew it would relieve John.

“A bit pathetic, don’t you think, claiming you’re not a hero and then jumping for your friends? I would have followed you anywhere. Why, Sherlock? If you don’t trust me enough to let me know you’re alive, then why are you even here? You’re not going to tell me there wasn’t a chance of informing me in _thirteen_ months.” The still rational thinking part of him knew that the only reason Sherlock was there was that he trusted him the most, that only now it was safe, but after all this time he was in no mood to be reasonable. He pressed his lips together in a sarcastic smile.

“You just left me here, knowing I would be alone, knowing bloody well that you were sending me back to the most boring life after letting me taste how exciting it could be. Just because going after Moriarty was more interesting for _you_. Yeah, thank you. That was really _great_.”

While shouting, tears escaped from John’s eyes. He had never allowed himself a proper cry over Sherlock’s death. Somehow, he couldn’t bear it. As if crying would have made it even more irreversible that he would never see him again. Yet here he was, even explaining _why_ he had done it. It was good to have him back. Even the odd warm feeling he had so often ignored had returned in his chest. There was no chance he would allow himself not to say the stuff he needed to say. He was not dreaming. Sherlock was real. And he was a _bastard_.

He cleared his throat. “Do you have _any_ idea how lonely I felt?”

Sherlock stood up, looking earnestly. “Yes. I think I do exactly.”

The impact of John’s fist on his jaw was painful. The fist came down a second time, even harder, and Sherlock lost his balance for a moment, but he let John give him what he deserved. Despite himself, all he could think of were Irene Adler’s words. _Someone loves you… avoiding your nose and teeth._ Quickly he shook his head, preparing for the next hit.

“Look at me,” John said, lowering his fist. Sherlock’s gaze wandered over John’s face, wet with tears, before they locked eyes. Having let out the anger, there was indeed relief in his expression, even understanding. John abruptly stepped forward and embraced Sherlock tightly. Sherlock seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then his long arms finally hugged John back. They stayed standing like that for long; Sherlock stroking lightly over John’s back, the shorter man gradually sobbing less. Pressing his face against the soft silk, he let himself drown in the scent of shampoo and Sherlock. He would have drifted off to sleep, standing there, finally relaxing, but eventually Sherlock stepped back and gently lead John to his armchair.

“I missed you,” John blurted out.

“I know. I saw the graffiti. It was… touching.” Sherlock’s eyes shifted to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

They were silent for a moment. Sherlock felt like he had to say something, and actually they had to leave to fulfill his plans to get Moran, but strange enough, this felt even more important than solving a case, although he had never felt so awkward and uncomfortable in John’s presence as he did now in this tense silence. Luckily, he saw John opening his mouth to say something, so he didn’t have to solve it himself.

“I’d better make some tea.”

The five minute wait until John came back with the teapot and mugs did not quite help to make Sherlock feel more at ease.

Without talking, John poured out the tea, sat down and thoughtfully sipped from the hot brew.

Sherlock mirrored his movements. He had missed John’s tea.

“I’m thinking about getting married,” John suddenly said quietly.

The shock in Sherlock’s eyes was only there for a second. “Ah. So I did miss something in my absence. Mary, hm? Mycroft told me you were dating her a few weeks ago, but only two times as far as I recall. It is quite soon, don’t you think?” He was blabbing at his normal speaking rate without really thinking.

John burst out into laughter. “Idiot!” It had been his only dates really, after a night Mike Stamford had – with some difficulty – persuaded him to join him for a drink. His cousin Mary had been very nice; that had convinced John that she did not deserve to be confronted with all of the sorrow he brought with him those days.

Sherlock looked confused and made John smile.

“I wonder _why_ you asked Mycroft about my dating.” There was an amused twinkle in John’s eyes. “No, I’m not marrying Mary. You fool.” The last two words were accompanied by a fond smile. He held out his hand to Sherlock. The latter was looking as if John had just changed into a purple beehive.

“What?” he managed. He took John’s hand anyway.

“I have missed you for long enough. They were all right. I only realized that we _were_ a couple after you were gone. Just marry me,” John commanded in a calm voice.

There was even fear in Sherlock’s expression. “It’s not that I don’t want to, John, but –“

His words were taken away by John’s lips on his. First it was a soft brush and the dark blue eyes rested on his own, questioning. It wasn’t too hard to find out his answer. For minutes, there was no chance of talking at all. Then John let him go, but his eyes lingered on Sherlock’s face, taking in every feature. He was real. He was alive.

Sherlock finally retrieved his voice, looking more disoriented than he had ever done before.

“John, I love you. I mean it,” he added and John grinned, “but I can’t marry you. Not yet. I still need your help in cleaning up the rest of Moriarty’s gang and if they can find out what you mean to me as easy as looking it up in a register – it is way too dangerous.”

“You know what “could be dangerous” does to me,” John shrugged.

Sherlock let out a nervous laugh, still looking as shocked as if he had been the one who had just discovered his dead friend was alive.

“We’re not in a hurry,” John smiled. He gently brushed his fingertips over the spot on the cheekbone where he had beaten him. “It is enough to know you are not opposed to the idea – because it would be too pedestrian or anything.”

“Pedestrian? With you?” Sherlock now burst out in proper laughter and pulled him closer.

“Well, I know you’re actually married to your work and so on, but it can always be your mistress – so far I’m prepared to share,” John grinned.

Sherlock responded with a broad smile. “Any interest in dinner at Angelo’s tonight, once we’ve caught our criminal?”

John placed his arm around Sherlock’s waist and looked up to him, happiness still unfolding fully through his veins. “God, yes.”

Sherlock nodded and stepped away from John to put on his coat. “Coming?”

“When you like and where you like.”

“You’d better bring your gun.”


	4. Sebastian

_July, 2005._

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Sebastian looked up. He was sitting on a bench in the park. It was a beautiful day to be free of work; it really was a shame that his husband had to be abroad for three days. He had a rather good idea what they could do to enjoy the summer heat when Mycroft came home and he had been thinking about it when the stranger greeted him. It was a rather short man, immaculately dressed, with sharp, dark eyes and dark hair.

“I need a sniper and I know you are one,” the man said casually.

Sebastian frowned. “What makes you think so?”

“Ah… A simple deduction.” The man showed a devilish grin.

Of course Sebastian was used to deductions, but he had only met two men who were able to tell a man’s life story from one glance. Mycroft, of course, and his brother Sherlock, whom he had only met twice, though he was sure did not look one bit like the stranger. He wondered if the Holmes brothers had a cousin sharing their intelligence, but then decided that probably they could not be the only two geniuses in London. Anyway, he doubted if one of them was as smart as his Mycroft, although he thought that vast opinion was almost childish of him.

“You’re distracted,” the man remarked, now sitting next to him. “Maybe I should introduce myself. James Moriarty. You are Sebastian Moran. Or should I say Moran-Holmes?”

 

When Sebastian walked home, he didn’t see nor hear anything around him. All he could hear was the tapping of his own shoes on the pavement, as if it were his own last heartbeats. Absorbed in thought, he almost walked into people, who could barely avoid him. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t risk telling Mycroft. There was not even a chance Moriarty would let them fly to safety abroad – they would both be dead before they had even talked it over. After all, it was clear that Moran was not Moriarty’s _first_ assassin. Only the most important.

All he could do was fulfilling the evil mind’s wishes. He had to leave Mycroft; the sooner the better – or at least the safer. But how could he do that? Mycroft was his husband. He would see within a second what was on his mind. If Mycroft suspected the least of Sebastian’s loyalty to him, it would be the end of them. And Moriarty would know, of course. Once again, British Intelligence had proven its worth to the malefactors rather than to its country.

Moriarty had not just wanted a sniper. That too, of course, but what he had wanted even more was power over the whole of England. And by choosing the _right_ sniper, he had gotten himself both of his wishes. He hoped to get information, that he would of course never get from Sebastian, but even then the man would prove himself useful. For some time, it could be very handy to have an ally who was once loved by mister Holmes, who was working himself up so well at the government. And then of course, Moran had the reputation of never having missed anyone except for that first job. He was perfect. He was all Moriarty needed to become the man he would become. He would not even need to be a man anymore. Now he could become a spider in his web of crime.

 

The next two days, Sebastian was making his plans and packing, though most of the time he had been sitting in a chair, his head in his hands, desperate for a way out of this. Moriarty had made sure there was none.

It would have been easier if he had just gone away, but he had decided against it. Not only would Mycroft send people out looking for him because he would be worried, but Sebastian also wanted to see his partner one last time. It seemed ages ago he had been sitting in the park with his little fantasy of Mycroft’s welcome home, before he had been disturbed by Moriarty. It would never become reality.

 _Click._ The door. _Tick._ Umbrella put in its stand. _Clof clof._ Mycroft wiping his feet. Those noises had been so familiar to Sebastian, but now they were something special, memories to cherish. He swallowed. _Step step step._ “Sebastian?” The door between the corridor and the sitting room went open.

Mycroft came in, smiling and stepping to Sebastian with his arms open for an embrace.

Sebastian stood up from his chair. His face showed no emotion as he looked Mycroft in the eyes. He didn’t show how he felt stabbed in the heart – he knew that in a couple of minutes, the man he loved would feel even worse.

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft frowned as he let his eyes wander over his husband’s face.

“I have gotten a better offer, Mycroft,” he said coldly.

“What?” His brows knitted in a blend of surprise and concern.

“I have packed everything that is mine.”

“What?” He let his eyes wander over Sebastian’s face, but found nothing of a joke there. “ _Why?_ ”

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s not anything you’ve done or haven’t done. Let’s just say the other party is more… persuasive.” He even managed a haughty half-smile.

“I don’t understand.” Mycroft had never said those words as long as Sebastian knew him. He looked as if he was on the point of breaking – Sebastian had never seen that either, even in times of the worst conflicts Mycroft had had to solve.

“I’ve got a new job. It’s got nothing to do with _this_.” He removed the wedding ring from his finger and put it on the table. “I mean, it’s nothing personal.”

“How can it not be personal?” Mycroft’s eyes were on the ring now, while he was hoping he would wake up from this nightmare. He had longed for being home… Nothing, absolutely nothing could have prepared him for _this_.

Sebastian followed his gaze for a moment, then remembered what he was doing this for. If he was not able to dissociate himself from his husband, he could not protect him either. He knew this would all mean that Mycroft would learn to hate him in time and that he would be responsible for his capture or maybe his death. It was like he had sold his soul to the devil, who now came to claim it.

Mycroft was staring at him, not knowing what to say.

Sebastian spoke quickly. “James Moriarty. Remember his name. I’m sorry, Mycroft, but this _is_ goodbye.” He picked up his trunks and went out, without looking back, leaving an astonished man who had never been more disappointed in his entire life.

 

~~~

 

_July, 2012._

John and Sherlock were after him. Sebastian knew it perfectly well. He also knew that if he wanted, he could try to make Mycroft believe how it had really happened, _if_ of course he was captured and not killed. But it would never be the same. He _had_ done Moriarty’s jobs, had threatened Mycroft’s loved ones, saved his own life by killing men who were defending queen and country. He had even gone after children and aimed a rifle at John Watson. And he knew the man whom he had loved, long ago. It would be easier for him to think that they had caught the traitor and that there had never been a chance to get back their happy life together. Because of course, he would be right. There was no chance, as much as Sebastian wished the opposite. The last traces of their relationship had been erased many years ago. Mycroft should never know that as much as he had tried to put away his feelings, as much as he had attempted to dissociate from him, he had never managed to forget what it was worth.

He saw the two men watching him from the other side of the street and sighed. It was time to finish the extermination of Moriarty’s network and he was one of the last links. He threw down his rifle. They could have him. He would tell everything, except for the parts concerning his personal life – if he had the chance, which he probably would – Sherlock wasn’t that fond of Mycroft after all, so he would want him to tell the truth before a jury rather than having revenge himself on hurting his brother’s feelings.

And then he would be locked away forever, a punishment he completely deserved. Still, he did not regret the choice he had made. If taking all those lives meant that Mycroft Holmes survived, it was worth it. His happiness may have died and that was the last Sebastian had wanted for his lover, but that very same man was also the best leader this country had ever had – and that, he thought, made it for the greater good.

 

As some time later handcuffs were roughly put around his wrists, he looked up for a moment before he was pushed in a police vehicle. On the end of the street, a tall man with an umbrella stood watching. It was the last he ever saw of Mycroft, and still, it would feel like a happy memory for the rest of his life.


End file.
